


Bride and Grume

by ThereminVox



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 16:14:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20997656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: Therapeutic phlebotomy.





	Bride and Grume

**Author's Note:**

> I’m regressing in quality.

** _Blood. _ **

Blood aims and shapes. 

Precisely. 

Flexibly. 

Of pulchritude, it’s striking hue paints.  From eager tongues, it is a taste that saturates, bleeding into nascent buds, into puerile being. Its consummation is arrant and brazen. As a material body, possessing an aura of sensuality, its magnetism is emboldened by the peculiar objects that summon. That is to say...

** _Weapons. _ **

Forged by Man. 

Wielded by Man. 

Drawing the substance upon which only a deity, scorned, could offer in emphasis of peerless aliment. 

_ Yes... _ the fragile essence of mortality. 

It is blood that entices virtue.  Seduced by lecherous rakehell of vice.  Analogised as fraternal twins.  Identical only by nature of the universe’s innate claim to syzygy. 

Two ruddy, jubilant boys, embodying the distended sun in its final phase, dimming flame of follicles upon vigorous head, erect from the scalp with wicked temptation, of which they succumb absent hesitation. 

Absent deliberation. 

Yet, none such is needed in a ravening battle of wits.  Indeed, the blade may be permitted form in its whetted scourge of fear. 

Or, simply, as the modest poet and philosopher would have it, evinced by an abstract force of penetration. 

Ah, but not quite so simple… when enforced by an execution fettered by sensitivity. As insistent graze would have it, fleeting caress is, at once, multiplied to a plethora of ethereal touches. In an instant, one feathered press of cool metal against skin is enough to pierce the fevered innocence. 

With not a second’s delay, the angel is made slave to flesh, dissipated in a vat of roiling contention, inexorably given to submit. 

Squalls of protest are hence beseeched in falling prey to deaf ears. 

“Brother or not, I  _ am  _ a man of my word. One step more, and I won’t hesitate.”

Amid the particles of this blood, stone disrupts the flow to ischemia. 

“What genius brings a gun to a knife fight?”

Gravel and soot spoils the responding ooze with a strain of sickle cells. 

Jeremiah sneers, relaxing marginally from his stiffened position. 

His left arm was poised, pistol in hand; rigid. 

Fluid grace leads the right to vanish within the adumbrated shadows of his bejewelled overcoat, procuring a glint of menace. 

He thinks the ridges of his teeth should suffice as substitute to the dagger. 

The only thing he loves more than the colour purple is the colour of vermillion. The shade that complements the hue of human ichor. A number of fantasies consist of how his brother’s blood would fare upon the curve of a sickle. 

Morbidly obese, their egos combined would precipitate a repeat of the Big Bang. Perhaps, even facilitating evidence of the Higgs Boson, tangible and every inch of terrible upon seeing. 

“Say the word, Broski.” Taunting, his diamond tone. 

“I have a limit as to how many times ‘Please’ can be uttered from my tongue.  _ That  _ was the limit.”

Jerome cocks his head, a switchblade, skilled in acrobatics, dancing gracefully within his right clutch. 

“What would Newton do?” 

Jeremiah smirks, hapless to the crippling Achilles’ heel that was a strip tease to his intelligence. 

“Well, given the circumstance, it’s quite simple. He would exercise his Second Law of Motion, employing the equation of momentum to sprint a swift escape.” 

Jerome feigns the phantom pangs of a heart attack. Jeremiah thinks the gesture has the potential to be considered “cute”. If not for his once fair face, at present, being the living embodiment of a scab warmed over. 

“Escape? From me? I’m hurt.” 

His frown turns upside down as he beams a smile of blinding luminosity. Jeremiah responds with a glare to rival the engraved forging of his whetted letter opener. All too keen to flaunt his ambidextrous flair by weaponising that which is intended, if at all, to protect the literary connoisseur. 

“Speaking of tongues, you know I could put it to good use, right? I mean…”

With that drifting ellipses, Jerome somersaults his phallic instrument of torture before continuing. 

“If I can’t touch you... I guess…  _ this  _ will do the trick.”

Exercising the equation of mass times acceleration, he swings his arm with the force of a Little League pitcher, having just been denied, by mother, cupcakes for dinner. 

Jeremiah’s reflexes are shocking, even to him. So much so that electricity sets nerve endings alight, mingling and tingling with the air density shifts generated by his hasty dodging. 

In the blink of a pink eye, the pomade slicking his hair bleeds and dishevels. Unloaded, the gun slips from grasp. Sharpened only for the purpose of puncturing Talc or fingernails, the Gothic tool of authors and scorned mailpersons steals away, from perspired grip, an ample dose of the crimson medication. 

Bones, and equally ivory flesh, jounce against the pavement. Crisp, night air French kisses his laboured breaths, an orchestra of grunts to mask the boot now invading his 40/20 vision. 

“Aren’t we supposed to be the same build? I mean, sure, I’m the more macho of us, but I expected the gas to at least give you an edge. Something that so-called-” 

Jerome steals a glance to the orphaned letter opener perched at the curb.

“ _ Weapon  _ of yours couldn’t provide.”

Moonlit gravity radiates his chapped lips with a fleer.

“Now, lick it.”

Jeremiah recoils. Disbelief, audible.

“Lick  _ what _ ?”

“My boot. The tongue, specifically.”

Jeremiah stares idly in the distance.

_ I will kill you for this,  _ he thinks to the narrator, scowling.

“I’ve a better idea.  _ You  _ lick the blood from my infected wounds and assume my piteous position on this disease-ridden street.”

“Hm.  _ Kinky _ . We’ll get to that. You know I love a good bloodletting.”

Jeremiah hums, accepting the gloved hand offered in helping. A mirror was sure to affirm his appearance as being three sheets to the wind. A veritable client of Einstein’s barbershop. 

“Didn’t realise that word was in your lexicon.”

“What were we fighting about again?”

Jerome brushes the remnants of liquid laugh from his brother’s sparkling shoulders. 

Jeremiah is silent as he retrieves  <strike>that mf thang</strike> his gun, obscured by a twirling shadow near the sewer inlet. The blood from his cuts cling to the metal of its hilt. Possessive as the soul that carries it to safety amid comforting shadows of fabric. 

“So, licking blood, huh? You betraying your knife kink might just be the highlight of my knight. Get it? Portmanteau of ‘knife’ and ‘night’.”

Jeremiah’s aberrant eye convulses in irritation. 

“First and foremost, ‘knight’ is an existing term. Secondly… try to mimic me again and I’ll see to it that your corpse beetle plan is effected. On you.”

Jerome looks on the verge of busting a nut. 

_ “You’re singing my song.” _

_ _

* * *

Prancing along to a tune long gone... **_the knives were yet forgotten_**_._


End file.
